"Beg pardon, sir. Mrs. Bingle says the children are getting nervous. They happear to be—"
A series of shrill screeches descended the stairway, followed by the sudden slamming of a distant doorway and the instantaneous suppression of bedlam.
"Quite so, quite so," exclaimed Mr. Bingle, springing to his feet. "Dear me, it is past the hour. Forgive me, Mr. Flanders, but—but I really can't delay the—er—Yes, yes, Diggs, tell Mrs. Bingle that we are all ready. Keep your seat, Mr. Flanders. Don't mind me. I must run upstairs and see if—Quite so, Diggs. They MUST be nervous. Where is Miss Fairweather?"
"She has a 'eadache, sir, and says she can't come down—"
"Stuff and nonsense! It will cure her headache. Send for her, Diggs. She's our new governess, Mr. Flan—"
"What was the name?" demanded the reporter, pricking up his ears. He leaned forward with a new interest in his lively grey eyes. But Mr. Bingle was gone, his coat-tails fairly whisking around the heavy portieres.
"Fairweather, sir," supplied Diggs. "Miss Hamy—I mean to say, Amy—Fairweather."
"Good Lord!" fell from the lips of Richard Flanders. Then he proceeded to behave in the most astonishing manner. He sprang to his feet and grasped the retreating Diggs by the arm, literally jerking that dignified individual back upon his heels. His eyes were gleaming. "Dark brown hair and soft grey eyes? Fairly tall and slend—" The sly grin on the butler's face served to check the outburst. He abruptly subdued his emotions. "Excuse me for grabbing you like that. I—I was just wondering if—"
Diggs had recovered his urbanity. "She is the same Miss Fairweather, sir. I recognise her from your description. It may interest you to hear, sir, that she acted just as queerly as you when I told her that you—"
"What did you tell her?" demanded Flanders, seeing that Diggs hesitated.